


06091404 251521

by OrphanText



Series: 06091404 251521 0615211404 251521 [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cataclysmic Week 2012, Gen, Horror, Rituals, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-03
Updated: 2012-10-03
Packaged: 2017-11-15 13:18:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrphanText/pseuds/OrphanText
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Promo fic for the upcoming Cataclysmic Week 2012. </p><p>All in all, it had been a rather bizarre night. No one mentions it anymore - or to be accurate, no one is alive to remember it anymore. Except for John Watson, that is. It was, after all, just a stupid little game... isn't it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 06091404 251521

**Author's Note:**

> Many many apologies for the inaccuracies depicted in this one. Honestly I know next to nothing about the war, and alcohol is indeed banned. I tried, so you can't blame me for that. I know I said I wasn't going to write anything until after I can deal with my depression better, but this one won't stop bugging me until I got it there so here you are.
> 
> Promo ficlet for Cataclysmic Week 2012 ( http://2012-cataclysmic-week.tumblr.com/ ). Sign ups are still open if anyone is interested, do drop by for a visit.
> 
> Beta: http://archiveofourown.org/users/ice_evanesco/pseuds/ice_evanesco

Come to think of it later, John reasoned that he had not been entirely in the right state of his mind. That was the only reason that he could think of, when the inside of his mouth tasted like utter crap, a headache pounding within his head.

 

Every cell saturated with alcohol, and too drunken on the swell of emotions, he couldn’t be held entirely responsible for his actions, or so he told himself grimly in the stale morning after, to the unwelcome morning light and bleak prospect of his future on a rather large blood soaked plain of endless sand and unrelenting sun. To whoever doctored the vodka with food dye, it had been a rather peculiar experience drinking what looked like mouthwash out of the bottle and passing it around. But if it was what got them through the night, they would willingly choose the bottle again, again, and again, if only for the brief moments of escape it afforded them from the demons that lurked in the darkness in their minds. Not a long-term solution, per se, but one that they would take until they were ready to face the grieving pain again on their own, and to commemorate a friend’s death sober.

 

It was always trying, when they lost one of their own to the bullets, to the fever and the sickness, lives slipping away through their fingers regardless of what they did, helpless, to make new friends and to lose old ones and never knowing when you would be the cause of another phone call back home, another casualty on the never-ending list.

 

Though, he wasn’t particularly one to dwell on the dregs in the bottom of the mug when there was still the living to look after. He picked up the piece of paper with its crudely scribbled letters and words up, crumpling it into a ball and making a note to toss it into the trash as soon as he could, before hunting down the ball point pen that they had used the night before, and putting the cap on over the tip firmly, and putting that into his pocket as well. There was another new day to tend to, and new patients, if they were unlucky, and that should put last night firmly out of his mind. And John Watson didn’t consider himself a particularly superstitious man, no. It had certainly been strange, but not entirely unreasonable that he had indulged in such activities under the influence of alcohol and stress.

 

There had been a blank text message from an unknown number on his phone that morning, but he never paid it much thought. There was no one waiting for him at home, either way. Not his parents, and Harry was most likely still her usual drunken self. Glancing into the dirty mirror, he winced at his appearance, and set about looking a little more presentable for the day and not as though his brains were about to slosh out through his ears, even though that was honestly how he felt like, before going to check up on his patients.

 

That was before, before when he wasn’t on the front lines, when he was still decidedly quite younger as he liked to think so.

 

He was wrong, either way.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many calefays.
> 
> I'm bad at writing calefay. I don't really like giving them names.
> 
> Don't try this at home.
> 
> Unbetaed.
> 
> Promo fic for Cataclysmic Week, Part One of a two part series.

_Is there anyone out there?_

Silence stretched between them, interspersed with giggles, and quiet murmurings to one another. “This is stupid,” Christian groused, a hand holding onto the pen. “This is a really stupid idea.”

 

Which was John’s thoughts exactly, but the surgeon never said a word, only murmuring his thanks as the doctored and hideously blue alcohol made its way back into his hands again, taking a quick drink from it before passing it on its merry way again. And if they were caught with the ‘mouthwash’, he wasn’t entirely sure if the trouble it would bring them was worth it, but ‘in the spirit of things’ as Daniel often told them before his most regretful passing in the day, none of them said no to it.

 

“Maybe you’re just not trying hard enough,” Andrew hissed back. “You have to really get into it. Enthusiasm! Show some! Anyone would be scared of your attitude if you’re sending them _fuck this stupid game_ thoughts.”

 

“In the spirit of Daniel?”

 

“Don’t really think anyone has his level of enthusiasm, is there?”

 

There were some giggles, and some solemn silence, before someone said to concentrate, and to try again. John simply sighed, and wondered what Daniel would think about all of this, wherever he was right now.

 

No one had expected Daniel to go, stolen from them by the fever and the sickness ever since he had been gunned down. There was a short period of time when he had rallied, seeming to gain strength again, before it all went downhill rapidly. He was a cheerful, enthusiastic young man even in the most dire of circumstances, and had an easy going enough attitude with enough bite that had people making friends with him quickly. It had then quickly gone from missing him, to having a small drinking party with one bottle of doctored alcohol that was smuggled in remembrance, as well as to remember those that had went before Daniel, and to the nameless, faceless many others out there and behind at home waiting, waiting for them all to return, and for everyone else like them who were still alive.

 

And then, for some reason, someone had suggested contacting the otherworld, and the rest had drunkenly agreed to it, if just for the fun of doing something stupid for a while without worrying about consequence. Besides, it was a fair bit of harmless fun with the promised mystery, and the inescapable fact that someone was going to make a prank out of it. John rather thought that someone had an unfulfilled childhood going on there, but since everyone had agreed to it readily, he supposed that it wouldn’t hurt to get everyone’s mind off dying for the moment being.

 

It had ended up with a group of grown men huddled around a piece of blank paper that somebody else had produced from somewhere, with a blue ball point gripped in their hands, and all of them either giggling, frowning, or thinking that this was turning out to be a silly idea for grown men to play, and only one actually concentrating on the it.

 

And only because there was really nothing else for it, John sighed heavily, and closed his eyes, sending out another tendril of thought to god-knows-what, according to what he was told, and some time soon someone was going to get bored of all this no action and start writing something on the paper, regardless of the promised supernatural appearance that would answer any and all questions that was asked of it. He rather thought that if anyone dead would want to somehow possess a cheap ballpoint grasped in the sweaty fists of drunken soldiers and a doctor just to answer any question that it occurred in their heads to ask it, then it should probably visit a therapist or the equivalent of one wherever they actually were.

 

Honestly, there was no reason why somebody dead or even partially so would want to listen in to them and possess a ballpoint ball to answer their silly questions. No reason at all, and especially not in this god-forsaken place.

 

-

 

_Does anyone wish to communicate with us?_

 

And sometime in the middle of all the giggling and the nudging and shoving and the complaining, the pen began to move, quietly, the tip sliding across the blank piece of paper, a trail of blue ink beginning to trace a circle on the white. John noticed it first, since he was the one who was looking at it closely all the time while he was sending out the thought, and wondered who was the one moving the pen.

 

The others caught up a while later, in more fits of giggling as the pen made circle over circle in the middle of the sheet, moving their hands.

 

By the time the chorus of who’s doing it died down, John saw that the pen was etching a sort of question mark deeply into the paper, except that it was harder since it never once lifted off the paper and everything was all joined together.

 

“What’s your name?” Someone asked into the sudden tentative silence, all eyes on the cheap ball point that John had found for them, and watched as the pen shivered to a stop, and then diverted from its course from tracing another question mark to form shaky cursive.

 

_Fred_

 

“Couldn’t you think of a better name?” There was another round of laughing and jostling as they accused and peered at each other to determine the culprit. “Who the fuck is Fred?”

 

“What is the colour of John Watson’s underwear?” Christian asked suddenly, loudly in the midst of everyone, drawing an exclamation from the doctor himself.

 

“Why are you asking about the colour of my pants?” John was trying to say over the sudden noise that everyone was making, but mostly ignored in favor of the general verbal agreement that it was a stupid question to ask and Christian defending that it was a general, harmless question to ask.

 

_Red_

 

John could feel his cheeks reddening, and yelled, fending them off with one hand as they tugged at his fatigues laughing to determine the colour of his pants. To add insult to injury, whoever was moving the pen for them had drawn out a shaky rendering of underwear for them, which was made even funnier when they confirmed that his pants were indeed red.

 

After that it was a round of ridiculous questions from everyone all around, from underpants, to girlfriends, to illnesses and embarrassing moments, accompanied with laughter and jeers, and drinks of alcohol as the bottle made its final round, the pen scrawling out answer after answer to ridiculous question after ridiculous question until the paper was covered in blue ink.

 

John bore through it all, never asking a question of his own, only participating because he was cajoled into it, and because it was in the ‘rules’ to not let go of the pen when the game was in progress, quietly watching as they had their fun. And when everything wound down, and everyone was much less excitable, they settled for watching the pen wander aimlessly across the paper, their thoughts turning inwards when they’ve exhausted themselves of their banter, to think instead of what truly mattered in their hearts and minds.

 

And slowly, slowly, the questions slowly peeled away, down to the kernel of truth hidden deep within them, the kind of questions that never meet the harsh light of day when everyone was sober, with their own problems to deal with on their own, the sort that comes out, the ones that carry their deepest fears and regrets, only voiced aided by liquid courage that they have passed around before, and pretending not to have said it in the morning after, left in the dust and the grit in their memories of another night of dealing with and getting by.

 

Questions about their families back home began, questions on dead comrades, dead friends. They took their turn asking about their future, but the pen wasn’t able to draw a conclusive answer for them – at least not one that they can easily comprehend.

 

The pen had behaved normally in the beginning, answering them one by one at its usual pace, before it started writing, answering questions even before they were asked, a series of words that held no meaning to everyone but the person that it was intended for.

 

It was some time then when someone had tossed the question of if they would make it out dead or alive into the mix, when it started to go wrong.

 

The pen skidded sideways, the nib catching on the paper, scrawling out names, and dates, words overlapping upon each other in the limited space, penning out names, and dates, of the people sitting in the circle that day, and expanding outwards to people not even present, names of people that were already dead, before drawing backwards, the writing more frantic, more urgent, more messy and almost illegible as it put down the cause of death next to each name and date, and going over the names of people who were dead until the name was blacked out, deep grooves on the sheet.

 

“Stop,” John started, voice tight, his heart in his throat, anger boiling at a joke that had gone too far, the ball point gripped tight in his fist, fighting against whoever was making the pen move around. “Stop. Stop it now. It’s not funny.”

 

But no one spoke, each of them staring at each other, wide eyed and pale, horrified and sickened by the violent spill of blue ink penning down their deaths one after the other, riveted. John frowned, trying to yank the pen back, finding it immovable, relentless on its path.

 

“Let go now. Let go. Stop!” John commanded, finding that he was unable to let go of the pen. “Whoever’s doing this – this isn’t funny!”

 

But from the silence that followed, it was apparent that none of them was doing it, all of them watching him.

 

“It won’t leave,” the one who suggested the game, whispered, his face pale. “I- “

 

John had gotten onto his knees, trying to lift the pen off from the paper, before realizing that it was trying to scratch out a new name on what little white space there is left.

 

_J_

 

“Stop it now,” he snapped at it, trying to see if he could tug the paper away from under it. “This is complete, utter, bullshit.”

 

“You have to make it leave,” the same guy was saying. “Leave! Shoo! Leave us! You’re not wanted!” He began saying, over and over in a way one would shoo away a persistent unfriendly pigeon that had its beady eye on your sandwich.

 

_O H_

Some had lapsed into prayers of their own, others simply watching, fascinated by the turn of events, and some apologizing again and again to people who weren’t there anymore.

 

_N  W A_

“What are you?” John whispered, hoping to hell that this was some by-product of the alcohol. Maybe it was the food dye that did it. Surely nothing that bright blue was for human consumption, after all. “Let them go. They didn’t mean it.”

 

_T S_

 

To be honest, now that it was spelling out his name, he couldn’t help but watch, driven by the inane need to know, to at least guess what lay ahead in his future, source and alcohol be damned.

 

_O N_

 

But instead of a date, like the rest, the pen quivered for a moment, before etching out a crude stick figure next to his name, frantically going over the arm of the little man, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, erasing and blocking out the white completely _soon soon soon soon-_

 

It was with a harsh gasp that John realized that _he_ was the one doing it, the only one holding the pen now, moving the pen now, about to rip a hole in the paper from the pressure he was exerting on it, and fell back with a cry, throwing the pen away from him, snatching his hand to himself, his breathing harsh and loud in the silence as everyone looked at him.

 

The pen hit the ground, and rolled to the side innocently. Just a simple writing instrument, a cheap ball point pen again. Harmless.

 

The men looked at each other, face pale, before mumbling and excusing themselves slowly, one by one, none of them looking at the glaring piece of paper in the middle of them all, one or two patting John, but all silent until John was the only one left.

 

A light breeze caught the corner of the paper, and flipped it over, the marks of the pen evident on the back side of it.

 

And John Watson, still not a religious man himself, decided to bugger it all to hell and went to sleep.

 

_

 

_soon soon SoOn sOON soonSONN_

 

 

 

 

 

It was strange, how much a bullet could change a person’s life. But then again John supposed that he really shouldn’t have been that surprised. He could have been dead, after all, but he came away with a wounded shoulder, and still alive. Which wasn’t that bad when one was dealing with the business end of a gun. Or a bullet. It didn’t quite matter by then.

 

Life in London was dull. It was - almost foreign. Something that should have been familiar settling uncomfortable around his shoulders and wrapping around his chest, like a long loved sweater that he had long grown out of, too tight in all the wrong places. It almost didn’t seem real, not at first, still seeing the sand, the glaring sun, the bleakness of all that he had left behind in Afghanistan even though he was standing in the middle of a busy road in London.

 

Back home in a home that didn’t feel like one to him anymore, and he wondered what had changed.

 

It was time to contact old friends, he supposed. Old friends, and people who were discharged, and definitely Harry, although he would be putting that last. He had to settle down, and shake off the dust, and not think about the next appointment with his therapist.

 

In a way, he had a lot to do, and also very little to do.

 

He sighed heavily, deleting the text message on his new mobile, since he had left the one that he had taken with him to Afghanistan there with someone else. And in the flurry that had followed after he had gotten shot, it really wasn’t the first priority in his mind back there.

 

Time to see what he could do with getting re-acquainted with London, then, he thought as he set off with his cane, unable to get anywhere without the blasted thump-thump sound of the thing beside him with a souvenir psychosomatic pain in his leg.

 

Home, indeed.

 

\--

 

“Whose phone is this?”

 

“Oh that’s- John’s phone. Why?”

 

“Couple of messages in his phone. He must have had a girlfriend, or something. Lucky bloke.”

 

“Did he? He never mentioned it.”

 

“Sounds clingy if you ask me… Just send it back I suppose. Don’t really think he’ll miss it. Never saw him around with it.”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Right another day on the field then… “

 

And far in London, a mobile beeped, a text message flashing across the luminous blue screen as London’s inhabitants slept, and prowled the streets each going on their respective business. It is always the same scrambled number, always at the same hour, same minute, the same second.

 

_Come back._

_Are you coming back?_

_Are you leaving me?_

_You left me._

_I miss you._

Received: 14 december 0:15:40

 

_If you’re not coming back then I’m coming to find you._

Received: 14 December 0:15:36

 

_See you very soon_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://2012-cataclysmic-week.tumblr.com/  
> http://221-inkfish.tumblr.com/


End file.
